


Band-aid on a Bullet Wound

by Irony_Rocks



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-15
Updated: 2010-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-12 16:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irony_Rocks/pseuds/Irony_Rocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They took your body. You'll take their house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Band-aid on a Bullet Wound

**Warning(s)/Spoiler(s):** Up to Episode 1.11, Briar Rose. AU after the first half of that ep.  
 **Recipient/Prompt:** Written for _Dominic escapes the Dollhouse, in the wrong body (preferably Sierra, but Victor is also acceptable). Some DeWitt/Dominic if possible._ Which in my head was a perfect AU for Briar Rose, where Dominic could escape in Victor's body after the interrogation.

* * *

You're still in Victor's body.

"Mr. Dominic," Saunders greets, and her face is all obscure ovals and blurry lines. She holds up a needle. "This should help to counter the effects of the drugs we just gave you."

There's a half-assed attempt to struggle, but you're still drugged to the gills and this tiny little woman doesn't even have to fight you to stick the needle in. Your eyes glaze over the room; you're not in Topher's lab anymore, but suddenly bits and pieces of hours passed float to the surface of your mind. Those bits and pieces jab like broken shards.

You remember begging openly, like a fucking little girl. You remember Adelle barking orders, and then you remember drugs. You really don't remember anything after that, but then something tells you that you don't want to. It wouldn't do your pride any good.

Pride. You'd laugh if you had any sense to.

Instead, you look up at Saunders – Whiskey – and say, "You must be laughing your ass off at the irony."

Saunders doesn't smile. "My sense of humor was never as bitter as yours."

It takes you a few beats of utter silence to realize the fatigue is wearing away. It takes a few more seconds after that to realize why. You glance up at Saunders' face, the carvings of Alpha almost invisible to you in the haze of your epiphany and disorientation.

"Why?" you ask. "Why in God's name would you ever help me?"

"You're not the only one with secrets, Mr. Dominic."

She gives you a change of clothes, a pair of shoes, and helps with a hack into the Dollhouse's security system so you can find a lull in traffic to escape. She doesn't get you a gun, or a weapon of some kind. She doesn't wince in sympathy when you stumble out of a chair in a body not your own. She doesn't wish you luck.

That's okay.

You never say thank you, either.

* * *

You head as far away from L.A. as fast as humanly possible.

In Seattle, you take the time to get papers in order before crossing the border; snapping pictures of Victor's damn mug and getting it pasted on everything you need. You get an alias with a passport, social security, even a birth certificate. Nothing goes undone or half-assed; you're a professional with connections and means, even if no one – not even your mother – could pick you out of a line-up.

You don't focus on that.

You only focus on getting somewhere safe.

* * *

Victor's hands are wider, larger than your own. He has a lower center of gravity, and there is a difference in height that is almost imperceptible if only you weren't used to something else the last 38 years of your life. There's no hair on his chest, and his palms are smooth, no calluses to speak of.

You still think of Victor's body as a separate entity – it's _his_ , never yours. Sometimes you call the body _it_.

There is no room for distinction, though. That isn't something you learn for a while yet.

* * *

The NSA is out. They won't trust you with an enemy's face. They wouldn't understand, because fuck, you barely understand yourself. You play it paranoid and go for nothing familiar. Family, friends – or what you could laughably call family and friends – are out of the question.

You lie low for another week and three days before the thought of eating a bullet crosses your mind.

You decide you've stayed hidden long enough.

* * *

Second stop: New York, New York.

The security at the Dollhouse is shitty. A dozen holes you can see after only a month of scoping the place out. Adelle would be rolling over in her grave – which you fully plan on putting her in, when the time comes. She's a tick in your eye, a song you can't get out of your head, and every so often of breathing and moving and putting your fist through an informant, you have a strange pause where you wonder what Adelle would think of you now.

 _Well, now, Mr. Dominic. This is a fine mess you're making of things. Tell me, what is your endgame?_

You don't have an answer.

At least, one beyond causing the Dollhouse pain.

* * *

You're nearly caught in Chicago.

Echo is there, loaded up with a wide array of skills and personalities meant to culminate in the… well, in the kicking of your ass. You made a mistake somewhere; you can't figure out what, but if Echo is here then you must have made it. A knife wound now mars Victor's left shoulder, but other than that, you escape without a problem.

Surprisingly.

For all of Echo's faults, efficiency was never one of them. There's always a first time for everything, though.

It never even occurs to you that she let you go.

* * *

Three weeks later, and you hit a nerve.

Rossum's got a new project; something no one is supposed to know about. You get in, and turns out the big hoopla is all about a weaponized gas. You take a sample of the drug – only a small dose, but that's all you need. It's a start, a lead, and you've got skills enough to work that into momentum.

On your way out the door, you look up and smile wide for the cameras. Adelle will watch this soon, and you think of her reaction: eyes narrowing, a tilt to her head, a casual lean against the desk in the corner of her office; that position always lifts her skirt just a tiny fraction higher up her thighs.

You smile wider.

* * *

Your guy at the pharmacological company says the new gas is one that makes the last one Rossum produced in the black market seem like child's play. A treatment for aggression, they call it. Docility in a breath. You call it mind-control and a hard and fast way of controlling the masses.

You can use this.

* * *

Two months later, and you stop going for nerves and start sucker punching.

You've sold the formula to Rossum's leading competitor for a figure with five zeros behind it. That's enough for you to get supplies, hire people, start an operation. You keep things small – a three man operation, all expendable. After a successful break-in at the Miami Dollhouse where you gather up damning evidence, you decide a trip towards the west coast is in order.

They took your body.

You'll take their house.

* * *

The second encounter with Echo is twice as brutal as the first.

Something is different this time. Something that you can't define, but Echo moves with a motive you don't understand until she has you pinned against the wall. "Listen to me," she says. "I'm not your enemy."

You bark a laugh. "I sure as hell am yours."

Echo ducks your punch and pops back, but you sideswipe her legs and she falls. You advance, she rolls, and then there's another struggle on the floor that's all elbows and fists and even a headbutt tossed in for good measure.

"You arrogant jackass!" she seethes into your ear when she gets you in another headlock. "Think for one goddamn second. You need someone on the inside. Now stop struggling or I'll cut off your air supply."

"Why the hell should I trust you?"

"Because I'm trusting _you._ "

* * *

You dream in San Francisco.

Roger, the name comes. The images blur, but you know what you see. The sight of Adelle moving atop you, hands braced on your – no, _Victor's_ chest. Your subconscious must be working overtime because it feels so real. Her hair cascades around her face, eyes closed and breath heavy. The feel of her hips swaying; the taste of her kisses; Adelle has this moan she makes, half caught in her throat, and it's a sound that's dark and wanting, deep enough to feed your fantasies for months.

You roll over, suddenly wide awake at four in the morning, and inexplicably, abruptly, you grasp a truth.

You don't hate her.

Even after everything, you don't hate her.

How fucked up is that?

* * *

The satisfaction you feel is cold, but that's never stopped you before.

* * *

Two houses down, and now you're gaining momentum.

A member of your team is killed, but they're all easily substituted like pawns on a chessboard. You pick another and move on, time being of the essence. Six months in this skin, in this foreign body, and if you didn't have a mission – a vendetta – you might have gone insane by now.

As it is, in this world, you're starting to wonder if sanity is overrated.

"One month," you declare. "Then we raid the L.A. branch."

* * *

One day, you wake with a terrible feeling in your gut that won't go away. Here's a fact: the personalities inside a doll can be one of two things; a copy of a scanned personality, or one of a construct. You think of Topher with his goddamn computers, mixing and matching and striping and styling personalities to feed whatever a client wants.

Are you real?

Does a man named Laurence Dominic even exist?

* * *

"L.A.'s house has a weakness," you tell Echo. "Just one besides you, and it goes by the name Alpha. Exploit that fear, and then watch the house turn to anarchy."

She raises an eyebrow. "You're wrong."

"About what?"

"If the L.A. branch has a weakness, it lies with Adelle, not Alpha. And that weakness is one only you can exploit."

"Me?" you repeat. "What the hell are you talking about?"

* * *

Tick-tock.

Times run out.

You reach for a weapon, locked and loaded.

* * *

How do you break in?

The answer: you don't.

You take the dive. It's difficult letting Boyd and Ballard think they've gotten the best of you, but it's easier with the knowledge that you're smarter than all of them. They handcuff you, escort you down the freight elevator, then parade you through the corridors of the dollhouse straight to Adelle's office. You see Echo and Sierra at the side.

Sierra spreads a wide, innocent smile for you. "Victor," she beams excitedly.

You roll your eyes and keep walking past.

* * *

You smile at Adelle, slow and lazy. "Miss me?"

"Mr. Dominic, I was beginning to wonder when we would have this conversation."

"And what conversation is that?"

"I want to proposition you." You wait a beat. "For employment," she clarifies.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but we've been down this road already, Ms. DeWitt."

"If at first we don't succeed," Adelle says, as she pours a drink.

You realize exactly what this is: a carrot at the end of a really big stick, but there's no going back, no reestablishing what's already been fractured and burned. You know that. She knows that. So this must be just a game. Except, in the next second, she sets a stiff drink in front of you and leans back, crossing her legs. It takes a second to realize it, but you've seen Adelle like this plenty of times before. Except usually you're on the outside looking in, watching Adelle circle around like a shark going in for a kill.

"I have a deal for you," she says, and takes a sip. "Your life… for your _life_."

* * *

8:33 p.m., and everything goes off like clockwork.

The gas you stole from Rossum is the one you use against them. It's released from the vents just as planned, and only the inoculated remain unaffected. That's a number including only four people: yourself, Echo, Sierra and Whiskey. Four _dolls_ , you realize, if you count Victor.

The gas works just as advertised.

"Take me to the attic," you order Adelle.

She smiles, serene and blank. "Of course."

* * *

The first time you see your body, after seven months of hell, you throw up.

The attic has done worse to you than you could ever imagine.

* * *

"Just do it, Topher!" you bark. "Upload my personality back to where it belongs."

Whiskey steps forward. "All of us," she adds pointedly. "And quickly. The gas will only stay effective for another 22 minutes."

Topher grins, eyes glazed over. "Yeah. Sure! No worries! We're all buddies here. Big pile of puppy buddies. _Manly_ puppy buddies, of course. For those of us that are men, anyway. I suppose for the ladies—"

"Topher," you growl.

Sierra stands to the side, confused. "Are we going for a trip?"

Echo nods. "I think so."

Sierra smiles. "I like trips."

Whiskey gets into the chair first.

* * *

The pain you feel as you're uploaded into your own body may be the singularly most jarring experience of your entire life.

It's also the most beautiful.

* * *

When the gas finally wears off, Adelle sits poised. "Is this the part where you kill me?"

Caroline steps forward. "Give us one reason why we shouldn't."

Adelle looks up quietly at all the recrimination aimed her way, and doesn't even blink. "It won't be the end of anything," she warns. "Our sponsors have assets to protect, and they will do anything to ensure nothing is endangered. The five of you together will be as effective as a band-aid on a bullet wound."

Victor raises his hand in the air. "Uh, yeah, about that? I'm still a little confused on what the hell is going on."

You wonder if you ever sounded that idiotic when you were in his body.

Impossible, you think.

"Take the elevator down," you tell the other four. "I'll meet you in the garage."

Echo, Sierra, Victor and Whiskey – or technically now, Caroline, Priya, Michael and Juliet – all wait a beat, before Caroline nods and signals to the others. They reluctantly follow her lead and leave the floor, and you're left alone with Adelle in a small square room with a single round table in the center. The teapot and cups rest cold and untouched.

"I regret to inform you, Ma'am, that we hereby formally submit our resignations."

You relish the fact that you're _you_ again – your voice, your hands, your body, your mind – it's all the way it's supposed to be. There's an arrogant lilt to your voice you never managed with Victor's body, a cocky smirk that feels just right on your lips.

"And what of us, Mr. Dominic?" Adelle asks, calmly. "Is this the end of our little tale?"

You pull out the chair beside her, and drop down. There's a slump in your shoulders, the gun held lazily in your hands, and your knee brushes hers almost accident-like. "I happen to think our story is more epic than that."

"Perhaps," she admits, "this is just the beginning of the end."

"You started this game. I'm just trying to finish it."

"You honestly think you can finish this? The Dollhouse isn't something you can take down with four rogue actives and a liberal doss of C-4. Alpha could only inflict so much damage, and let us be frank. None among you are as intelligent as he proved to be."

"You underestimate me, Ms. DeWitt. I thought you'd learn that lesson by now."

She can read the subtle anger in your voice. "You were the one who betrayed the Dollhouse. Don't lay the blame all at my feet for how this turned out."

"After everything we've been through, you still think this is all about a betrayal of an organization? It's more than that."

"You were never a sentimental man before, Mr. Dominic. Did I misjudge you?"

You smile, vindictively. "In more than one way."

She leans forward. "So what now? You put a bullet in me? Give me a warning? Walk away? What's your next move, Mr. Dominic? With you, it was always about the next move."

You drag her into a brutal kiss.

It's all tongue and teeth, aggression and repression released. Three years at her side, and you dreamt of this – in another fashion, of course. Now, there's only a brutal type of passion lacing the kiss, and it doesn't surprise you in the least when Adelle responds with exactly the same. You two have always been on the same wavelength.

When you pull back, she drops her gaze. "I was right," she says, and you catch the quiet pain behind it. "This is the beginning of the end."

* * *

  
 _fin._


End file.
